User blog comment:Biggren/The Northern March/@comment-3135907-20130319214357

From the high northlands they came- the rakings and scrapings of the earth, vermin murderers to the last ratjack! Slaye the weasel and his band of thirty strong, from all walks of life, swept ever southward from their cold beginnings in the Northern Mountains; drawn by promises of wealth, fame and endless power, Slaye's Mercenaries obeyed their master with cunning speed and force, ready to sell their blades for a crust or a coin. They made their camp in the dusty flatlands to the west of Redwall. Their destination: Salamandastron!

"Hoi, mates, lissen close now," says Slaye as he roasts a fish over the fire at the center of the camp. "I `ear there's an `orde at Salidastrun, run by some big polecat boss. Wot d'yer sez to us lendin' our paws to aid `em? Haharr, that's wot I thought. There'll be plenny o' badger treasure fer all, I kin tellyer that, me lucky buckoes!" Several mercenaries raise their blades in agreement. "We're wid yer, Slaye!"